


A Phrase That Fits

by Cohens_Girl



Series: There's A Name For It [1]
Category: Corpse Party (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Teeny Bit Of Hurt/Comfort, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 14:43:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6083415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cohens_Girl/pseuds/Cohens_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They never talk about it.</p>
<p>It just sort of...happens, now and again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Phrase That Fits

**Author's Note:**

> WAAARGH. This fic fought me every step of the way, my God. I don't even know why, 'cause these guys are my newest OTP. I know there are Satoshi/Yoshiki (Satoshiki?) lovers out there, so this is for you guys. I know it's a little small, but I really hope you like it.
> 
> Canon-wise, I don't exactly know where this would fit in; I haven't played Blood Drive yet. Essentially what I've written assumes that Satoshi went through countless time loops before they eventually stumbled onto the True End from the original corpse party and, I figured, you know, he's probably convinced that it's still happening, because after doing the same thing over and over, you wouldn't believe it could end, right? You probably don't need to know any of that, but there it is.
> 
> Warnings: Some bad language. References to man-sex.
> 
> Disclaimer: Don't own, not making money, yadda yadda. Two part title taken from Tina Turner's What's Love Got To Do With It.

 

 

 

They never talk about it.

 

It just sort of...happens, now and again. One accidental touch, one shared gaze, and Yoshiki will say _come back to mine_ ; his voice will be low and rough-edged and Satoshi will nod sharply, spend the rest of the day fidgeting in his chair, so tightly wound that he could squirm right out of his skin.

 

There's no romance in it, of course : no sentiment. Satoshi likes Yoshiki just fine, but that - that has nothing to do with this.

 

It's about being alive. About being whole, still breathing, flesh and blood and bone still knit together. A way to prove that they _exist_ , damn it; to know that even if the rest of the world were to forget them, that this, _this,_ this would be burnt irreversibly into the other's memory.

 

This is real. It's visceral, it's tangible, and it's _real_.

 

No matter what may happen in the future - even if the past is rolled out before them in an infinite loop of _why-didn't-I's_ and _If-only-I-had's -_ Satoshi will always be able to close his eyes and see the look on Yoshiki's face when the agony of pleasure over-takes him. He will always be able to recall with perfect clarity every rumble and growl, every curse dragged from his lips, every half-conceived mumble of praise -

 

_please, yes, right_ there -

 

in every time-line, on every stupid fucking _plane_ in which he exists, Satoshi will know the feel of their skin pressed together, soft and sweat-slicked, heat trapped between their limbs : he will remember every curve and every mark and every sensitive spot on Yoshiki's body, because if, if, if they ever end up in Sachiko's house of fucking horrors ever again, he wants that to be the last God-damn thing he ever remembers.

 

Something...raw. Something human and beautiful - the broad strokes of his shoulders, the dip in his chest, the tenderness of the skin at his waist -

 

God, please, when it happens, let _that_ be the last thing he sees.

 

 

 

So they come back to each other, again and again and again - because even if they don't talk about it, Satoshi is sureYoshiki feels the same. The truth is, it's more like a battle, than a way to make love. Writhing atop the sheets with flailing limbs, scratching and biting and clawing; yes, a battle, one that sometimes has two victors...and sometimes none.

 

Those nights Satoshi almost regrets ever stepping foot past Yoshiki's front door. There is no more wretched feeling that rolling to face the wall, knowing that they are both as miserable and unfulfilled as each other. There is nothing more terrible than the uneasy stretch of silence that follows, listening to Yoshiki breathe, unable to sleep for the sick pit of nausea swirling around in his belly.

 

_Can't do anything right_ , Yoshiki will hiss.

 

Satoshi never has the heart to ask which of them he is referring to.

 

And he can tell himself that it doesn't really matter, in the scheme of things; after all, each single day that they manage to get out of bed and face the world is a personal triumph, isn't it? A well-slept night is nothing short of a miracle; what does it matter if on an odd occasion he and Yoshiki fail to communicate, if what they are doing hurts more than it helps?

 

But the truth is, this link between them, this new and tenuous connection that had formed in the wake of the ordeal at Heavenly Host - it is the most important thing in Satoshi's life, save only for Yuka. Even if it is just sex, even if it doesn't mean anything - _no romance, no sentiment -_ Satoshi can't bear the thought of losing it.

 

There have been times when he has wondered _what if_ ; what if he took the time to slow this down, to truly enjoy it, to appreciate what they are doing. What if he really looked at Yoshiki's face, what if he felt compelled to say

 

_you are the best fucking thing_

 

but the thought of getting attached, _shit_ , it's too frightening, too permanent _._ If Sachiko taught him anything, it's how easily people can be ripped away.

 

He's sees in Naomi's face what that would do to him : the awful hollowed-out gaze, lifeless eyes staring out of her skull.

 

He likes Yoshiki. He likes hanging out and eating lunch with him, likes mothering him a little, helping him with his homework and calling him a lazy asshole. He likes knowing a part of the boy that no one else knows, likes having an intimate knowledge of his body, likes that he is able to provide a semblance of comfort, to soothe the frayed nerves that get the best of them both, at times.

 

Satoshi likes Yoshiki, but he will not love him. He will _not_.

 

Perhaps, as the months pass, their shoulders will brush in the hallways and their fingers will touch, even link together, just for a moment. Perhaps he will blink awake more often than not to a warm pair of eyes, a smile, a scratchy _good morning_. Perhaps, a year after they first crept into bed together, he will spend an hour or two studying the fine hairs growing on Yoshiki's belly, mindlessly skimming his fingers over velvety skin, just because he can. Perhaps he will recognise that they are no longer so frantic, no longer so afraid, that what were once innumerable awkward silences are now filled with comfortable, lazy kisses. Perhaps the taste of Yoshiki will become a second skin upon his tongue, perhaps his clothes will all be dusted with his scent, perhaps -

 

\- but he will not love him, damn it, he will _not_.

 

 

 

“I used to be good at this.” Yoshiki mumbles, voice muddy with near-sleep, hand sifting gently through Satoshi's hair. “Not sure I know what I'm doing any more.”

 

If Satoshi's honest with himself – and he does try to be – he has to admit that he's not sure he ever knew what he was doing. He just wanted a way out, to exist outside of the unending torrent of pain and horror that kept turning over and over in his mind : this thing between them, it seemed like a good idea, then.

 

Right now what he's doing is swatting at the hand in his hair and grumbling,

 

“Y're g'ng t'sleep.” He's listening to Yoshiki chuckle and roll onto his back, and wondering just how long he'll get to keep this.

 

Wondering what he'd give Sachiko not to lose it.

 

Oftentimes, Yoshiki will wake screaming, howling, pawing at blood and viscera that isn't there, convinced that his skin is on fire, that there is some dark apparition in the corner of his room, hammer raised and ready to strike. Some nights he will simply cry, a terrible, broken sound, whimpers lost into the darkness, dissolving into the night. Satoshi lets it happen because he isn't sure how to fix it, isn't convinced that it can be fixed.

 

You can't un-see, and you can't un-know.

 

Tonight, Yoshiki doesn't even get to sleep; Satoshi knows the rhythms of his breathing well enough. He lies careful under Satoshi's hands for hours, breathing in and out in a practised cadence, one that is supposed to bring calm but never, ever can.

 

When the sky crosses the threshold of darkening and begins to brighten, he flings himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, head in his arms.

 

It's worse, this time. He tries to hold it in, body so rigid the mattress trembles beneath him - but when he breaks, it is simply inevitable. Hysteria bubbles up from the well of terror that Sachiko dug out in each of their chests and he cries until he's gasping, great heaves for air, his whole body shaking. The stretch of bare back that Satoshi can see looks desperately vulnerable, and so _alone_ ; Satoshi knows, he _knows_ , that he's always been doomed. He can't fight it, was already too far gone to begin with.

 

He's already attached. He's already head over fucking heels.

 

He settles himself along the other boys spine, presses his nose into bleach blonde hair, absorbing every shuddering sob with his own flesh; Yoshiki doesn't swear, or shout, or fling him off – only reaches for his wrist and grips it tightly, curls his fingers around the fragile bones like it is something transitory, and precious.

 

Satoshi knows the words he has to say, the words he's been so afraid of, the one promise he should never make -

 

“It's all right, Yoshiki. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.”

 

\- the one promise he really will have to crawl through Hell on Earth to keep.

 

*

 

 

 


End file.
